On Saturday, I run last-minute errands, prepare a meal that will provide leftovers for Sunday dinner, and tidy up the house. When the sun goes down, whatever I haven’t finished stays undone for twenty-four hours. If I am tempted to fold one more load of clothes, clean the bathroom sink, apply another coat of paint to that piece of furniture, or answer those last few emails, I become like the Israelites, compromising by making excuses that stink. A lack of faith in Sabbath reeks of self-sufficiency. And the fear of scarcity robs us of the miracle.
